Promises
by quiller
Summary: A series of stories in which promises are made, kept – or sometimes broken.
1. Alan

Promises 

_This is the first in a series of one-shot stories linked by the theme of a promise made to or by the central character._

_My thanks to Purupuss and Jules for proofreading, my acknowledgement to Granada Ventures as the owners of the original characters and my thanks to Gerry Anderson and his team for creating them_

Alan 

When Alan looked back on that day, the first thing he remembered was the rain. He stood beneath his grandmother's dark blue umbrella, his hand clutched tightly in hers listening while the raindrops pattered on the fabric and dripped over the edge to form puddles on the grass He pressed himself against her side for comfort. So much that was happening today was confusing. A lot of things were confusing when you were only five years old. A couple of times he had tried to ask Grandma what was happening but she had only 'shushed' him and gripped his hand even tighter.

For a start, he was sure it wasn't a Sunday, but this morning he had been dressed in his best clothes and they had all gone to church. There, instead of sitting in their normal seats near the back (in case he needed to be taken out to use the washroom) the family were sitting in the front row. Gordon sat on Grandma's other side, looking solemn, which wasn't like Gordon at all. The older boys sat with Dad. John and Virgil both looked like they had been crying, while Scott seemed to be trying not to. That didn't make sense either. They were all big boys and big boys didn't cry. Dad's face was even stranger. Normally Dad was smiling, sometimes he looked worried. Just occasionally he looked cross, especially if Alan and Gordon had been arguing or making a lot of noise. But today his face just looked tight – as if he didn't want to move it at all.

There was a lot of singing and talking from the grown-ups like there usually was in church, and all the standing up and sitting down. One thing that was different was a big wooden box at the front. He wondered if it was some new sort of table. He could see there were flowers on it at the moment.

After the singing and everything else was over, many of grown-ups came up to shake Dad's hand. Some of them Alan knew, they were neighbours, or people he called 'Auntie' or Uncle', but a lot were people he hadn't seen before. Nobody looked happy.

After this the family had climbed into a big black car. It wasn't their car and he didn't have his booster seat so he couldn't see out of the window very easily. The car drove very slowly. Alan wished it would go faster. He liked it when Dad drove fast and the scenery whizzed by, even if Mom sometimes got cross with Dad and told him off.

They had ended up at this big park place, in the rain. It seemed silly to stand around in the rain – why couldn't they come back when the weather was better? Then he could run around and play.

There was more talking from the grown-ups, while Alan stood and watched the rain. He would have to be careful as there was a lot of mud around, and he knew he would be in trouble if he got his best shoes dirty. Normally he would wear trainers if they were going to the park, because nobody minded so much if you got them muddy – as long as you took them off when you got home and didn't get mud on the floor.

Then the big box that had been brought with them was put in a hole in the ground. Dad's face got even more closed up then and he had shut his eyes so he couldn't see it happening.

People started leaving after that. One of the ladies came up to Grandma and spoke to her, then ruffled Alan's hair and told him he was a good boy. Alan didn't like it when people did that. He liked his hair nice and tidy. And he was being good. Grandma had made him promise this morning, but he knew he had to be good anyway. When Mom had left to go and see her friends, she had given him a big hug. "Be a good boy and I'll be back in a few days," she said as she had kissed him. Alan had been good. He had been good for ages and not lost his temper once. Well, OK, only once at school, but that was Sally Henderson's fault – it had been his turn to go on the swing, not hers.

John had said Mom wasn't coming back. He had been crying when he said it, but Alan was sure he was wrong. He couldn't believe him. He didn't _want_ to believe him. Mom had promised to come back if he was good, and he knew Mom wouldn't break her promise.

Of course she wouldn't.


	2. Gordon

_Author's note: This story fits in with my stories 'Ordeal/Getting there' about Gordon's accident and rehabilitation. I know nothing about competitive swimming, but fortunately for me, Kaeera, Purupuss and Tikatu do, and were willing to share their knowledge. Thanks, friends!_

_Disclaimers still apply from previous chapter._

_Gordon_

A cheer goes up as we file into the main arena. I look up at the crowds and wave. I know my family are up there somewhere, on the west side of the stadium, Scott had said, but I can't make them out from here. They wouldn't want to miss this. This is what I've been working towards for all these years - the finals for the Olympic 400 metres butterfly.

I dump my gear on a chair There's only a few minutes to go before the start of the race. Everyone is going through their own pre-race routine. Petrov, the Russian guy, is sitting, muttering to himself – I think he might be praying. The Romanian, Rubescu, is doing some stretches.

I wander towards to pool edge and crouch down to dip my hand in the water. I like to get the feel of it before the race starts, gauge the temperature, the hardness of the water, so I know what to expect when I dive in. It might seem odd to an outsider, after all water is water, isn't it? Especially in an indoor pool where the temperature and chlorinity are carefully regulated. But it isn't. Just like a skier can feel differences in the snow, or a pilot in the air, that's how I feel about the water.

I walk back to where I left my kit, shaking my arms and legs gently to relieve the tension. I'm feeling nicely warmed-up. I had a good session in the practice pool and my body feels finely tuned, like one of Alan's racing engines, raring to go.

I'm in Lane 3, one of the favourites. In a few minutes it will all be over – all that work, all those hundreds of hours of training, all working towards this moment. I know I'm lucky to be here. Hell, I'm lucky to be alive, walking around and _compos mentis_. Less than eighteen months ago there was a big question mark over all three, after I crashed my hydrofoil at 400 knots.

I glance round at my competitors. I know they've all had to train hard - you don't get to be an Olympic standard athlete by being a couch potato, but when I think that just over a year ago I couldn't even sit up without support or hold a glass of water, I think I've had to work even harder than most.

Mind you, I couldn't have done it without help. I send a prayer of fervent thanks to the staff at Kane hospital, especially those in the physiotherapy department. I wonder if they're watching the race on TV today.

My thoughts go back to my last week under their care. I had spent four months at the hospital as an 'in-patient' but another month living out and attending for physio as a day patient. Boy, I don't think I've ever worked so hard in my life. My days were filled with exercises, massage, hydrotherapy, Faradism, occupational therapy. One thing I wasn't was bored!

When I had been discharged from the orthopaedic ward, Dad had arranged to buy the ward a more up-to-date version of the Possum machine that I had used to enable me to read or watch TV when I was in the body brace. Virgil designed and had made a little brooch in the shape of a mermaid that I had given to each of my nurses as a 'thank you' for their care. So when I was coming to the end of my final therapy session I asked Frank, who was giving me a massage, if there was anything he would like for his department.

"Yes, Gordon," he had said, "there is something you can get for me. I'd like a photo to hang on the wall, just there." He pointed to a blank space, at eye level for a patient sitting on the couch.

"A photo?" This seemed a strange thing to ask for.

"That's right. A photo of you, holding the Olympic medal you're going to win next year. I want to be able to point to it to show other patients what can be achieved, if you are determined enough. Will you do that for me?"

As the announcer calls my name I take up my position on the starting block. I feel keyed up, like a coiled spring ready to be released. The starter gun goes and I hit the water in a smooth dive. I surface and take a lungful of air as I make my first stroke. The crowd are roaring, but I'm not listening.

I've got a promise to keep.


	3. John

Promises

_Thanks to Jules for the idea for this one…_

_John_

With a sigh, John logged off his email and sat back in his chair, staring at the screen. He pushed his chair back and stood, reaching up to the shelf above the desk. The room was dim, lit only by the lamp above the computer and the Earthlight coming through the window, but it was enough for him to find the book he wanted. He didn't have many hardcopy books here on the station, but pride had made him bring this one. He opened it and looked at the dedication, his mind going back across the years.

ooooOOOoooo

"John Tracy, please wait behind after class. I want a word with you."

The thirteen-year-old had looked up into the stern face of Miss Liebermann, his English teacher, as she put his essay down on his desk. A look at the mark on the paper gave him a fair idea what the topic of conversation would be.

As his classmates filed out of the room, John approached the teacher's desk with some reluctance.

Miss Liebermann looked at him over her half-moon glasses. "I presume you have some excuse for that piece of work you submitted? Frankly, John, it was not up to the standard I expect from you. The grammar was terrible, the spelling slipshod and there were punctuation errors I wouldn't have expected from a ten-year-old. In short, it has the look of an essay hastily scribbled before breakfast. What have you to say for yourself?"

John shuffled his feet. "Well, Ma'am, I thought I'd have plenty of time to do it the night before it was due. But our coach wanted some extra practice on the track, so I got home late, then I realised that there was an eclipse of the moon that night and I wanted to make some observations. I tried to write it in between, but…" his voice trailed off lamely.

His teacher looked at him with a sorrowful expression. "You and I both know you can do better than this. From what I've seen of your work so far, I know you have a skill for language. You could come top in the class if you tried."

She shook her head. "I've seen this happen before with talented pupils. The trouble is John, you are an intelligent child, maybe too intelligent for your own good. You don't need to work hard, you can just coast along and still get adequate marks, maybe even beat your other classmates. But you can do better than that." Here she paused and shot him a conspiratorial glance. "Maybe this is one area where you can even outdo your brothers."

John was instantly attentive. "What do you mean?"

She smiled. "I know the sort of essay your brother Scott used to hand in. He's a bright boy, and good at the science subjects, but creative writing is never going to be his forte. And from what I've heard of your younger brother, Virgil is creative but his talents lie in other directions."

John smiled. He liked the idea of being able to beat his brothers at something.

Miss Liebermann could see she had made her point. "So, the next essay I set you, I expect you to give it your full attention and give me some work of which you will be proud. Will you do that for me, John? Remember, a diamond is just a lump of coal that stuck at the job."

ooooOOOoooo

Working on a satellite that received communications from all over the world didn't mean you knew everything that went on. The death of a retired English teacher didn't make for headline news. People didn't rush up to tell each other in the street. If it hadn't been for the notice in his old school newsletter, John would not have known at all.

He looked down at the dedication page of his first book.

'_To Miss Liebermann - who made me promise'_


	4. Scott

Promises

_Author's note: to answer one reader's query, these stories are in no particular order, just the order my muse gave them to me._

_Scott _

… _some promises are harder to keep than others…_

The sound of thunder crashed down as Thunderbird Three drew a vapour trail across the sky. Scott stood and watched from the balcony, the sight never failing to give him a thrill. Normally he would be riding inside the rocket as it took John back to the space station at the end of his month's break, but today Virgil had asked to co-pilot, saying he needed to put more time in on the controls. John had agreed, though Scott wasn't so sure Alan would be happy with the idea on the return trip.

"Roger, Tracy One, you are clear for take-off. Have a good trip" Scott heard his father's voice from the lounge behind him, and a moment later he saw the sleek blue and yellow family jet leave the end of the runway. Brains had an optician's appointment on the mainland, and Grandma and Kyrano were going along to do some shopping. Grandma had plans to cook Alan's favourite dishes for his supper tonight.

Talking of which, Tin Tin emerged from the lounge dressed in her striped swimming poncho and carrying a mask and flippers. "Have you seen Gordon?" she asked, "he's taking me diving on the reef this afternoon."

Scott nodded, pointing down the stairs to the patio. "Yes, he's just left; he said he'll meet you down by the boathouse. Have a good time; watch out for those water mambas!" This had become a standing joke among the family ever since Tim Casey's visit. Who could think that such an innocent looking person as Tin Tin could lie so convincingly?

Scott turned back to the lounge where his father was gathering up papers from his desk. He looked up. "Ah, Scott, I have to go into my study – I've got a conference call with the Tokyo office. Could you keep an ear open for emergency calls?"

"Sure thing, Father. I'll be working in One, but I'll prop the door open so I can hear the alarm."

His father nodded, "Ah, yes, you've got those updates to do on the guidance system, haven't you?"

Scott pulled a face. "Yeah, not my favourite job, but it's got to be done." Scott watched his father disappear down the corridor and gave a sigh. Recalibrating the guidance system was not difficult, but it was fiddly and time-consuming. He'd rather be facing an emergency any day. Maybe a quick snack beforehand would put him in the right frame of mind.

He wandered through to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and looked at the plate on the shelf which contained the remaining quarter of one of his grandmother's chocolate cakes.

Her words rang in his ears. "I know you, Scott Tracy. Don't you go eating all that cake before your brothers get home!"

"Yes, ma'am," he had said, wondering just how she always managed to make him feel like a small boy. Well, he shouldn't let it worry him, he had seen her do exactly the same to his father, a man who commanded the respect and admiration of thousands.

He cut himself a slice, making sure there was enough left for two more helpings, then fished a fork out of the drawer. Mmm, this was delicious. Chocolate cake had always been his favourite, even when he was small. In fact his punishment for any misdemeanour was to be denied his favourite treat. He remembered once that Virgil, who must have been about eight years old at the time, had managed to smuggle a piece of cake into his trouser pocket and proudly brought it out for his big brother later that evening in his room. When their grandmother had found the resultant mess in the laundry basket they had both received punishment.

Scott smiled at the memory as he rinsed his fingers under the tap, then headed for One's silo, scooping up his laptop on the way through the lounge.

Nearly two hours later he sat back in the pilot's seat, rubbing his hand across his eyes. That was the second error he had input in the last five minutes. Time for a break. He wandered back through the lounge towards the kitchen, thinking how strange it was to have the place to himself. In a household this size there was usually at least one other person around.

He poured another glass of orange juice, then looked at the cake. Virgil had cut himself a huge slice last night at supper. Equal to two slices really, so he shouldn't expect to have another one. Scott cut himself another slice, careful to leave enough for Alan when he got home, then took it back with him to continue his work.

It was another hour before he sat back in satisfaction and snapped the lid closed on the laptop. He stood up and stretched to get the kinks out of his muscles, then headed back towards the lounge. No sign of Gordon or Tin Tin yet, but they could have gone straight to their rooms to change after their swim. The murmur of voices from his father's study showed that the conference was still in progress. He wondered if he would have time for a quick swim to loosen up before the others returned, but meanwhile he was starting to feel hungry again. He entered the kitchen and switched on the kettle, then opened the refrigerator.

The last piece of cake was sitting on the plate, looking tempting. Alan didn't know there was a chocolate cake, did he? Anyway Grandma was planning to cook all sorts of special things for him tonight. He wouldn't want cake as well.

A while later Scott was relaxing by the pool after a refreshing swim. He saw the jet make it's final approach, waited until he had judged the plane would have touched down and come to a halt, then put a call though on his wristcomm.

"Want a hand unloading, Brains?"

There was a pause while Brains was conversing with his passengers. "N-no, thank you, Scott, but your grandmother asks if you could make your way to the kitchen and help with unpacking the elevator once it arrives."

"FAB. See you there, Grandma!"

Scott stood and gathered up his towel, then made his way up the stairs. The swim had done him the world of good – he felt much better now. However his buoyant mood evaporated as he entered the kitchen and saw his grandmother scowling at an empty plate.

"Scott Carpenter Tracy! You promised to leave some of that cake for your brothers!"

Scott had the grace to look embarrassed. He couldn't think of anything to say.

His grandmother gave him an icy smile, then turned towards a cupboard, pulling down a large tin. "Just as well I made another one then, isn't it? And don't think you'll be getting any of this one, because you won't!"

Scott was saved from answering by the sound of the alarm that echoed through the house. He turned and ran for the lounge, reflecting that he could now add his name to the list of people who had been saved by International Rescue.


	5. Virgil

Promises

_This story is for Chris – as a thank you for giving us the chance to hear what Virgil would have sounded like as Billy. If you haven't heard him, go to the Tracy Island Chronicles website, click on The Mansion then visit Lady Penelope's library and check out David Holliday's file – and enjoy._

_My thanks to Purupuss and Boomercat for proofreading._

_Virgil_

Seventeen-year-old Virgil peered out through a gap in the curtains with a sinking heart. The school hall looked a heck of a lot bigger from up here on the stage than it did from ground level.

Why had he ever let the drama teacher talk him into taking a part in the school play in his senior year? He could have been down there in the orchestra, tucked safely behind a piano, where nobody could see him. Instead, here he was, up on stage playing (and singing, heaven help him!) the part of Billy in the musical _Carousel._ By now his stomach felt as if Scott's plane was inside it, doing aerobatics.

The auditorium was starting to fill up. He could see his family sitting near the front. Alan and Gordon were already digging in to a bag of popcorn they had brought with them, while Scott and John, both home from college, were looking round to see if there were any familiar faces from their schooldays present. Across the aisle from them he noticed some of his team-mates from the school football team. Matt, Shane, Ray, even Gerry the team captain had come to watch. If he flopped tonight there was nothing else for it, he'd have to leave town. He'd hitch-hike across America, leave the country, join the Navy – anything.

Just when he didn't think things could get any worse, his eye was caught by a petite figure whose long brown hair hung down to her waist coming through the door. Serena Bateman: by all that was holy what was she doing here? She had been in the year above him and he had worshipped her from afar all through High School but never plucked up the courage to ask her out.. Just to make things worse, she had her whole gang with her – Kim, Chris, Juliet. That was it, he was out of here. As they took their seats he wondered if he could get a taxi to Kansas City Airport and leave the country before anyone noticed he was missing.

He jumped a foot in the air as a hand was placed on his shoulder. "All ready, Virgil?"

Virgil turned to see the smiling, chubby face of Mr Stubbs, the drama teacher. "Yes, fine, thank you, Sir."

"Splendid, splendid!" replied the man in his normal jovial fashion. "Glad to see you're not worried. No need to be of course, you'll be fine!" Stubbs was looking around. "You haven't seen Helen, have you? Just want to make sure she's feeling happy."

Virgil shook his head. "Not since she went to get changed, Sir." He had spoken to the girl who was to play the female lead opposite him only briefly when they had both arrived.

"Oh, well, I'm sure she's around somewhere," replied the teacher and wandered off. Virgil stared after him, wishing he had the older man's confidence, but then he wasn't going to be the one out on stage in front of all his fellow-students.

Virgil wondered if he should go and check on Helen, just to make sure she was OK. He headed towards the girls' dressing room, but just before he got there a small figure in a light blue dress came running out and dashed past him without stopping. He realised it was Alison, the ninth grader who was playing his teenage daughter, Louise. The door opened again and Marilyn Hepple, who was playing the second female lead, put her head out.

"What's wrong with Alison?" asked Virgil.

"Oh don't bother with her! What do you expect from a silly little freshman? Have you seen Miss Rogers? She was going to help me fix my hair. I just can't seem to get it right on my own."

"Sorry, no," replied Virgil as he turned to look for Alison, concerned by her rapid exit. He followed the direction she had taken and found her huddled behind some of the scenery flats. As he approached she sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Hey, what's this?" he asked as he lowered himself onto the floor beside her. "Method acting? We don't have your crying scene until the second act, remember?"

Her only response was another sniffle. Never having had younger sisters, Virgil was at a loss what to do. He suddenly remembered the bandana he was wearing and unwound it from his neck, holding it out. "Here, dry your eyes with this."

"I can't use that, it's part of your costume!" she protested.

He pushed it into her hand and gave her a smile. "I'm sure Billy can manage without it."

She blushed bright red. He had had a sneaking suspicion all through rehearsals that Alison had a crush on him, and the way she was behaving now seemed to confirm that.

"OK," he said gently as she wiped her face, "now tell me what's the matter," though he had a pretty good idea already.

Alison stared up at him with brimming eyes. "I can't do it, Virgil! I can't go on! I'm the youngest one here and I'm scared I'm going to let you all down!"

Virgil shook his head. "You're not the youngest – don't forget we had to draft in some kids from the junior and elementary schools to play the other children."

"I'm the youngest one with a speaking part. I've got that big scene with you and Helen and I'm afraid I'll forget my lines and ruin it for everyone."

"You won't do that. You know your lines. You were fine at rehearsal yesterday."

"You think I'll be OK?" her voice was hesitant.

Virgil picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sure you will. Trust me on this. I believe you can do it, so does Mr Stubbs, or he wouldn't have picked you for the part." Thinking fast, he fished in his pocket and produced a coin. "If you think it will help, I'll lend you my lucky quarter. Here, take it." He pressed the coin into her hand and folded her fingers over it. "I had this in my pocket when I did my first piano competition, and I've taken it to every performance ever since. It helped me, and now it will help you."

"Don't you want it?"

Virgil shook his head, "No, I won't need it, I'm fine," only realising as he spoke that while he had been encouraging her, his own nerves had evaporated.

Alison looked at the coin, then up at Virgil, her eyes shining. "Thank you, Virgil! I promise I'll take good care of it and give it back to you after the performance."

Just then Mr Stubbs voice was heard echoing around backstage. "Two minutes to curtain-up. Places please, ladies and gentlemen!"

With a final glance at Alison, Virgil went to take his place onstage. His lucky quarter. Well, it was lucky he still had a quarter in his pocket after he'd been to get some chocolate out of the slot machine. But he was sure it would do the trick.


End file.
